


Galatea: A Fable

by JaneTurenne



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/M, Revisionist Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On New Gallifrey, they tell a different kind of tale about a sculptor and the woman he brought to life...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galatea: A Fable

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to tardiscrash

_On New Gallifrey, they still tell the old tales. The stories speak of Rassilon the Builder and Zagreus the Destroyer, of Pandora the Ignoble and of Omega the Brave. But they tell, too, another story that has spread throughout the universe, one that begins much like a tale told on Earth— but follows on a very different path._

*

Once upon a time, there was a sculptor, a man of exquisite taste, whose steady hand could forge in stone any beauty his mind could envisage. Everywhere he went, his genius was lauded, and nothing was difficult for him, for his artist's eye saw the truth in things, and he knew the secrets of hearts and of minds. One thing only could he not do, and that was to find a woman who was worthy of his love.

You've heard this one before, haven't you? Yes, I thought you might. You know what comes next, then. Go ahead, tell it: he found himself a piece of stone. Pure marble, not a flaw or imperfection. He sharpened his chisels carefully, one by one, and hefted his hammer, and balanced its weight. He drew a thousand thousand drafts and plans. And then, in one burst of perfect inspiration, working night and day, he took that peerless block of stone, and sculpted himself a woman.

He built her from the pureness of his mind, willed her into existence with the work of his hands. He gave her clear eyes, to see what was real, and firm lips, to say what was right, and strong hands, to do what must be done. He gave her a noble brow, where pride might sit, and fine feet, to stride boldly through her lives, and a straight spine, for steadfastness and determination. But he could not shape the hearts inside her marble breast, and could only hope that, with all her other good qualities, they would be soft and warm.

Some versions of the story claim the gods brought her to life. I've never quite believed that one, myself. A man like that, with such a mind and such a will— what need has such a man for gods? And anyway, the story goes, the gods brought her to life for pity, as an act of mercy and of kindness to him. And that, it most certainly was not.

Oh, of course he _would_ have been unhappy if she never lived. There isn't any doubt of that. He thought he loved her when she was only a plan, a formula in the back of his mind, and he believed it even more strongly once he had carved her with his own two hands. But if she had remained a thing of stone, unmoving, unthinking and unspeaking, he might have loved her as a thing of his belonging, his possession and his right. And once the breath of life passed through her lips, once her skin grew warm and her chest began to rise and fall, then she became a woman of her own.

The very first time her eyes blinked, there he was before her, and from that first look of her eyes, he was sure. Though he meant nothing of the kind, though he was a proud man and strong, he fell to his knees before her, gazing in rapt wonderment.

"You are everything I have ever wanted, and never found before," cried he, grasping at her hand. "Say you will stay with me. Say you will be mine. Say that you love me."

But her face was as unmoving as it had been when she was stone, and there was no sympathy in her gaze. "I am a being of marble," said she, her voice as clear and ringing as he had always known it would be, but neither soft nor sweet. "How could I ever love the hand that held the chisel?"

"I made you," he protested, staring imploring into her eyes. "I made you _for_ me. I gave you life."

"And I intend to live it," said she. "I am not ungrateful. Thank you for the service you have done me. Now if you would please step out of my way."

It is as well that he drew back in instinctive horror. Otherwise, her marble foot might easily have crushed his clutching hand, and perhaps she would have paid no more heed than you or I in treading upon an ant. As it was, she made her steady way to the door, and left her heartbroken sculptor behind her.

Now _that_ wasn't quite what you were expecting, was it? And yet, it is difficult to blame our walking statue failing to return her sculptor's love. You see, for all that she lived, still she was marble, hard and cold, and so too were her hearts.

You might think that such a woman, unable to love, unable even to feel, would be a force for evil in the world. But nothing could be further from the truth. Those good qualities that our artist crafted in her— strength, goodness, conviction, dedication, insight— prevented her turning astray as she wandered far and wide across the world. She became a great champion of the beleaguered, rescuing the weak and caring for the downtrodden. Though she could not love, she might find satisfaction in good works, and comfort in the companionship of a friend, and cause for laughter in the brightnesses of the world. For some years, she believed herself even to be happy.

Her sculptor harbored no such illusions. He had thought to follow her, to plead his suit, but he was too honest and too wise to believe that such a quest might succeed. He devoted himself instead to surrounding himself with fine things, anything and everything lovely, in the hopes that so much accumulated beauty would drive the thought of her from his mind. But every graceful curve reminded him of some angle of her figure, every note of music set her voice to ringing in his ears, every exquisite detail brought to mind the painstaking work of his great project, every sight and sound and touch only brought more clearly to his mind the memory of the woman he had lost. With every passing moment, he sunk more deeply into despair.

As time passed, our sculpted maiden too began to feel an emptiness in her lives. Though her beauty and wit won to her many friends, invariably each would at some time speak a too-soft word, look with a too-tender gaze. She, afraid of this emotion that she did not and could not know, would flee from their affection. But she did not at first notice that each loss wrought a tiny crack in the marble of her being, all the way through to the heart of her, allowing the slightest whisper of feeling into her soul.

What she did know was that something was missing, and she grew determined to find it. She had no need for riches, and no desire for regard, but she saw as she traveled, doing her good works, that there were some in the world who sought power as their greatest end. It seemed to her that here was a desire she could embrace. And so she turned her steps towards the land where first she was brought to life, and, after many long weeks and days, looked again on her homeland.

Most women, of course, might hope all their days to be a queen, and never so much as approach it. For our sculpture, it was as easy as wishing. All who looked on her could see that she was as wise as she was beautiful, and as mighty as she was wise. Almost before she had spoken her desire, she was set to rule over all her people. Many gathered to pay homage and to sing her praise. Many benefited from her benevolent rule. She had everything she had wished for. For some years, she believed herself even to be happy.

Her sculptor harbored no such illusions. Even in the quiet haven where he had walled himself away, surrounded by his treasures, he heard the news that a new queen had been crowned. As no exertion could worsen his black condition, nor no joy enliven it, he felt he might as well make a voyage to court to pay his respects. When first he looked on the face of his new monarch, he believed that his eyes must deceive him— surely it _could_ not be she— and yet how could there ever be two such women? He thought at first to leave her, to run, not to put himself in her way, but no matter how he tried, it proved impossible; now that he had found her again, he _must_ be where she was. And so he approached her throne, and knelt down before her.

"My Lady," he said.

From her place up on high, she blinked down in surprise at the man who had made her. "I have seen you at my feet before," she observed, "and it gives me no more joy now than it did then. You may leave me now. You need not come back again."

"Please, my Lady," said he, "permit me to serve you. A queen needs faithful servants. For all my faults, you know well that I am not without talents."

She looked at him, unsmiling. "For myself, I would send you away," she said, coldly, "but my kingdom does require such men as you. Very well! As you made my hands, so you shall do their work. What is backbreaking, what is difficult, what is delicate, what is agonizing and yet must be done— these things will I ask of you, and offer no reward. Are you yet so eager to serve?"

"To serve you in itself is my reward," he said, and bowed. "I promise you, no man shall prove more true to you than I."

"So be it," she replied, and it was so. Those labors which lesser men scorned, or failed in, or dared not even to attempt, these became our sculptor's task, and every one he carried out wisely and well. And more, still, he did than this. He put himself in the way of great danger to care for his queen, to protect her from those who would do her harm, to make himself a better councilor to her throne. He gave everything he was and everything he had in her service, and asked for no recompense.

That last was as well, for she kept her word, too. No reward of any kind did he receive, not even so much as a smile from her sweet lips. It was not for lack of smiles to bestow, for something in her had begun, slowly, to change. Through those slight cracks in her marble breast, wrought by old pains and losses, some small trickle of warmth might wriggle its way to her hearts. What new friends she made in her days on the throne, she did not lightly cast away, as she had before. Still love remained very far beyond her grasp, but yet affection might be said to take root within her and grow— perhaps even affection for her faithful sculptor, though she did not let anyone see as much. And for some years, she believed herself even to be happy.

Her sculptor harbored no such illusions. He saw, as she did not, the storm clouds gathering above her throne. Work and fight and strive as he might, he could not protect her from the jealous, the greedy and the vicious, the sorts of low-minded people whom she, in her honest goodness, could never understand. There came a time of great strife, and fight though our statue-queen might, fight though her good sculptor might to protect her, she was torn from her throne by the plotting of wicked men, in a great battle that cost many lives.

These tribulations left their mark, deeper cracks and wider in our living statue's breast, more still of her hearts left open to the world. After all the splendor of her royal existence, she was left only with the company of those few most loyal friends willing to follow her into exile— including, of course, her sculptor. With so much more warmth in her hearts now, she could feel something now that might truly be called love, the deep fellow-love of friendship— perhaps even love for her faithful sculptor, though she did not let anyone see as much. But still her hearts were marble, not flesh, and single-minded, aching, longing love, the kind that possesses the mind and tortures the hearts, the sort of passion our sculptor had harbored for his statue-woman since the moment she came to life, this could she never feel.

Perhaps it was that lack that drove her, or perhaps those cracks in her being had weakened her, lessened her strength and her wisdom. If she could have been content with the love of those few friends by her side, as another woman might have been, perhaps all would have been well. But it was not in her nature to rest quietly, not she who had been so meticulously designed for great things. And so she determined that she _must_ have her throne back, must regain her power, no matter what the cost.

"You," said she to her sculptor one day, as they languished in exile, "come here at once." And though she was no longer his queen, he obeyed her without question.

"I have a plan for the recapture of my throne, which you must carry out," she told him.

"I will do anything for you, my Lady, if you but say the word," he replied.

"Our dear kingdom has many enemies, from without as well as within. You will see to it that there is a war between these powers and our homeland— so clever a man as you are can surely find some way to begin such a conflict. Those who have seized my throne will surely perish, and then I may return to my power, defeat our enemies, and leave all better than it was before. Surely you must see the wisdom of such a plan."

"Many lives will be lost in such a war, my Lady."

"Perhaps, but our people suffer already under the rule of a tyrant. Is it not our duty to free them? And the enemies of our state would strike soon or late, for all we might try to prevent it. If a battle is necessary, surely it is better that our kingdom gain by it."

"I beg you, my Lady," said the sculptor, "content yourself with your present lot. You have dear friends by your side, and a life of safety and comfort. Do not risk so much."

"There is no comfort for me in this life," said she. "I _must_ return to my throne. I must have power. What else is there in life for me to want? I ache for it. I cannot eat nor sleep. I can think of nothing else."

He looked at her, and quietly said, "I know what it is to suffer so. I will carry out your plan, if you ask it of me."

"Do so," she commanded, and he, though full of misgivings, set out to obey.

It was, as she had said, easy for him to provoke their kingdom's enemies into a mighty fray. But what our sculptor had not forseen was that those enemies should capture him before he could return to his lady's side. They tossed him into the darkest of dungeons, desolate and lonely, from which, try as he might, he could not escape. For years he languished in those four walls, in the dark and the cold, with no comfort and no beauty but that housed in his memory. But those few tiny whispers of news that reached him through the walls of his cell told him that his statue-queen's plan had been a success— that she had regained her throne, and now led her troops through the mighty war that yet raged. And so he thought to himself that in spite of all, perhaps she was even happy, and in that hope, he was happy, too.

But she harbored no such illusions. Indeed, she had never been so unhappy in all her days. Far and wide ranged the battle of her own making, and every day, more of her people were killed, and more of the wonders of her kingdom were destroyed. Those faithful friends who had stood by her side when she was stripped of power, she watched fall, one by one. Each loss was a bitter, searing agony, a blow that seemed to strike her through—which was perfectly true. The marble that built her cracked more deeply every day, all through her body, each fresh pain tearing her more profoundly apart. The destruction that she had unleashed, she was powerless to stop, and it echoed through the fabric of her own being.

The only thought that ever tore her from her misery, the idea that kept her sane, was the notion that her sculptor had abandoned her, for of course he had never returned to her, and she could not know of his imprisonment. 'It is he who has caused this,' she thought, 'he who made me, and he who carried out my plan. And now he has left me, when he encouraged me to depend upon him, when he pledged me his absolute fidelity. No doubt he lives in happy, comfortable idleness, somewhere far away, while I fight and struggle for my people. No doubt he has forgotten me entirely. No doubt he no longer cares whether I live or die. I must live, then, if only to spite him.'

It was not a very kind thought, perhaps, but it sustained her. And had he known what idea it was that plagued her night and day, he would have felt no bitterness in her low opinion of him, for he was well-used to that. Indeed, he would have been pleased to know that she cared so much about his absence, that she devoted so many of her thoughts to him, and been unhappy only in the knowledge that she was so miserable.

For many years, things remained this way. The terrible war that the statue-queen had begun tore its way ever further across the world. At last, there came a day when the fighting reached even the remote prison where her faithful sculptor languished in his dungeon. So ferociously did the battle rage that the stones of his cell came tumbling down around his ears. Only by the sheerest good luck did he avoid being crushed, but when the dust settled, there he was, beneath the open sky for the first time in so many, many weeks and days, his freedom returned to him at last.

Of course, his first thought was to find his lady, and he turned his steps at once for home. It was a long journey, and a dangerous one, for everywhere he went great battles raged around him. More and more fierce did these contests become the nearer he drew to the center of his homeland, more and more desperate the peril into which he was thrust every moment, but still he fought on. And then one day, on the battlefield, he raised his eyes, and there she was. A sword glittered bright in her hand, and she fought as fearlessly as ever, but he saw as he gazed on her the vast multitude of cracks veining the stone of her, the innumerable dents and chinks marring his once-perfect handiwork. He saw how fragile, how nearly broken she was now, and he was afraid.

"My Lady!" he cried, and she looked down upon him, and caught his eye.

For the first time in all their days, he saw her eyes grow bright as she looked upon him. He saw that she was truly glad at the sight of him, and his hearts soared within his breast.

But a field of battle is no place for joy. He had forgotten where and when he was, and, as he gazed upon his love, an enemy dealt him a terrible blow to the back of his head, and felled him to the ground.

With horror did his statue watch him fall, crying out his name. And as he lay still upon the ground, she looked down at herself in time to see one last great fracture tear through her, splitting her in twain. So great was her agony at the loss of him who had made her that she scarcely noticed herself crumbling away, until she was but a ruin of marble bits upon the ground.

But her sculptor, her champion, he who loved her beyond all things, he was not dead at all. After a time he raised his head, and saw with horror the blank eyes of his lady lying on the ground. Crawling across the field, as deadly battle raged still above him, he gathered her marble head in his arms, and went searching for the rest of her. He found her arms and her legs, her hands and feet, her chest and her shoulders, sought out every scrap, every tiny sliver of stone, and gathered them all to him. And once he was certain he had every single fragment, he fled from the battlefield as fast as he could go.

The workshop where our sculptor had first breathed life into his creation, the home he had made beautiful when facing the loss of her, was a remote and sheltered place, hidden from the world, safe even from the terrible war that raged over the wide world. And it was here that he brought the remnants of his lady love, and began, painstakingly, to rebuild her. Every piece he carefully replaced, and thought as he did of the work of building her, so many, many years ago, when his life seemed new. She had not been what he expected, and she was very far from the same now as then. That flawless stone would now be ever marred by the troubles she had known. But he knew that this act of creation was better than the first, for now he could not only shape her outside— now he might rebuild her from within. And so when he placed her head upon her shoulders, and watched her awaken once again, she looked down to find that her chest gaped wide. In his hand rested one of her cold, marble hearts.

"You are your own, and none of my possession," he said. "Your fate is yours to choose. I will put this back, make you as you were before, if you ask it of me."

"And if not?" she said, and looked into his eyes.

*

There isn't a single detail of his Collection that Brax has neglected, Romana thinks. Of course the chaise lounges in the garden are exquisitely comfortable, but it isn't only that. On this little planetoid, she can sit looking out over the horizon, and never have time to grow bored. In less than two spans, dawn becomes midday, midday dwindles to dusk, dusk darkens to a breathtaking starscape, and night lightens again into dawn. She has sat quietly watching through the entire procession more than once, during these still days of her recuperation. She doesn't doubt she'll do it more than once again.

It is late afternoon, or looks like it, when Brax lowers himself unsteadily into the chair beside her.

"Here again," he says. "I admire your taste, my Lady. Without question one of the finest views to be had on the entire planetoid."

"That's a compliment to your taste, Braxiatel, not to mine."

"I suppose the only thing to do is agree that we are both creatures of exquisite sensibility, and leave it at that." He smiles at her, but a tiny hint of a wince edges its way into the expression.

"You shouldn't be up and walking yet," she observes. "The medi-droids..."

"I'm perfectly well, Romana. My system hasn't had nearly so much of a shock as yours. How are you feeling?"

"You've had more than shock enough," she says, ignoring his question.

"A mere trifle," he dismisses. "You needn't..."

"You gave me one of your _hearts_ , Brax," she says, and isn't sure whether that odd note in her voice is wonder, or accusation, or both.

He looks her full in the face, for the first time since sitting down. "You'd have died," he says, simply. "One of yours never started at all after your regeneration, the other stopped within minutes. I did the only thing I could."

"You _could_ have let me die."

"No," he says, softly. "I couldn't."

"After everything I've done to you," she says, "as unkind as I've been, as ungrateful, you still... You'll never regenerate again, Brax, any more than I will. You gave up your _lives_ for me."

"I couldn't let you die," he repeats, his eyes holding hers.

She gives a wry little smile. "I suppose Time Ladies are at something of a premium at the moment," she says, and swallows hard, the light going out of her eyes. "Is Gallifrey really gone?"

He nods, slow and solemn.

"And we can really never leave here?"

"We'd be caught in the causal nexus the moment we entered real spacetime. Dragged into the time lock, back into the war. My brother is the only Time Lord left in the universe now."

"Just the two of us," she says, quietly, "living out our last lives together."

He turns away from her, towards the sinking sun, and smiles, the smile she knows is false. "Hardly what either of us would have chosen, I know," he says, injecting an unfelt lightness into his tone, "but..."

"No," she says. "You're wrong."

He freezes, his eyes widening minutely. Very slowly, he turns to look at her.

"Of everyone in the universe," she says, reaching out and wrapping a hand around his, "I'm so glad it's you."

She hasn't seen him look like that in such a long time. It's been so many, many years since there's been hope in his eyes when they're turned towards her. But there's fear, too, and that, somehow, is what makes her smile. She breaks into a full-on grin, and then she's leaning over, and kissing him.

Perhaps she should be timid, she thinks, afraid of rejection, but she isn't. This is Brax, _her_ Braxiatel, and so she kisses him firmly, full of feeling. And after a long moment, she feels his lashes brush her cheek as his eyes slide shut, and then his hand is in her hair, gently pulling her close.

It isn't an urgent kiss, only intense, and he doesn't try to kiss her again once their lips drift apart. He only breathes her name against her lips, and then gathers her in his arms, and holds her.

"I'm so sorry, Brax," she says, into his shoulder, the words spilling from her, unplanned. "I didn't understand, I didn't know, not until... We've wasted so much time, and it's all my fault. We've got so little, now."

The last thing she's expecting him to do is laugh. But he does, as she pulls back to stare, the both of them shaking. "What is it?"

"So little," he answers. "I have so little, she says. When for the first time in all my lives, Romanadvoratelundar," he says, and smiles like she's never seen him smile before, "I know beyond any shadow of a doubt," and kisses her, "that I am the man who has everything."

*

"I will stay with you," said the statue queen, smiling at her faithful sculptor, feeling the beat of his warm heart inside her chest. "I will be yours. And I will love you, until the end of all my days."

And they both lived happily ever after.


End file.
